Being a woman

Sometimes I just hate being a woman. A veces me odio que yo soy una mujer. (That's Spanish. It's another language. I'm cultured and sophisticated. Aren't you impressed?)
It's not so much the fact that we're expected to remain largely hairless. Sure, it's hard to remain in a constant state of razor burn. And I'll admit, sometimes I think it'd be much easier to just grow the unibrow and forget the whole tweezers thing. But most of the time I like being consistently smooth. I do not enjoy reminding people on the metro of a cactus. Especially THROUGH my clothing. So the shaving bit doesn't bug me so much.
I'm talking about those magical days when Eve's curse comes knocking at my door.
You all knew exactly where I was going with this so don't pretend you're shocked.
I hate being in pain.
I think I have a fairly high pain tolerance, you know? You don't go through brain surgery without knowing a thing or two about PAIN.
But once a month I feel like curling into a little ball and moaning pitifully while pretending that no one in the world has ever felt as badly as I do. Not even lepers. With missing fingers.
Or that losing one's entrails might be preferable.
Or that if I managed to gnaw off one of my toes the emergency room nurses wouldn't commit me. They'd nod to each other and say, "Oh. We've been there too."
Those are the days that I hate being a woman.

So sorry for the short post. But my innards seem to be attempting an escape.
I must quell the rebellion.
Not unlike William Wallace, actually. I bet I know just what he felt like.